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they don't wanna go to war™
Country Lunatic™
Lunatic Nation™
F.O.W.B Independent Records™
you talk loud...
but your boots ain't never touched no blood-soaked floor
you post threats, i post bail
and you ain’t built for what comes with the tail of a trail
this ain't rap...
this is warfare.
not a beat, it’s a death march drumline
where every step echoes with another chalk outline
they don't wanna go to war, they just bark and tweet
i got killers in the cornfield, posted and discreet
ain’t no warning when i slide, just a flicker and a boom
turn your trap house into a concrete tomb
they don’t wanna go to war, they just run they lips
till the clip drop hot and the dirt get flipped
i ain't prayin’ for peace, i was raised for the smoke
i’m the white trash menace with your city in a choke
every strap got a name, every round got a prayer
and i send 'em to your crib like i uber despair
i don’t tweet—i tactically maneuver
surgical shooter, plug’s worst rumor
drop a body, then i baptize in shine
ain’t no truce when i circle, it’s just chalk and spine
dodge with the dope box welded in the bed
with a burner phone ringin’ and a price on ya head
meth cookin’ in the woods while they cry online
i done stabbed a rat up just to watch 'em whine
threw a snitch in the lake with a weight on his neck
then i sipped on a beer, didn’t break no sweat
i got goons with records, tatted up faces
and they don’t hesitate, they just erase shit
sawed-off in a stroller, baby mama runnin’ plays
while you beg on the net, we settin’ up graves
ain’t no fear in my chest, just gunpowder veins
every drop of blood earned, every scar got a name
ride for the fam, not a brand or a check
and we don’t shoot legs, we go straight for the neck
they don't wanna go to war, they just bark and tweet
i got killers in the cornfield, posted and discreet
ain’t no warning when i slide, just a flicker and a boom
turn your trap house into a concrete tomb
they don’t wanna go to war, they just run they lips
till the clip drop hot and the dirt get flipped
i ain't prayin’ for peace, i was raised for the smoke
i’m the white trash menace with your city in a choke
i was born in the fire, raised in the ash
with a .45 father and a felony stash
we don't call 12, we call crows and shovels
where beef don’t squash, it just doubles and doubles
tattoos tell stories, scars make maps
been jumped, been stabbed, still ran my traps
ain’t no studio smoke, this is cookhouse steam
where a junkie get blessed and a snitch get cleaned
i was 12 with a pistol, 14 with a plug
by 16, i was duckin’ feds under rugs
never needed no click, just a will to survive
while they played gangsta, i was really outside
got an ar-10 in a violin case
and a trailer full of loot with a switchblade safe
they can post they threats, i don’t lose no sleep
i just black out the lights and release that beast
they want attention
i want a trench and a shovel
they want drama
i want vengeance doubled
they want clicks
i want caskets closed
they want views
i want a war nobody chose
they don't wanna go to war, they just bark and tweet
i got killers in the cornfield, posted and discreet
ain’t no warning when i slide, just a flicker and a boom
turn your trap house into a concrete tomb
they don’t wanna go to war, they just run they lips
till the clip drop hot and the dirt get flipped
i ain't prayin’ for peace, i was raised for the smoke
i’m the white trash menace with your city in a choke
they don’t wanna go to war, they just talk on screens
never seen death 'til they live in my dreams
this that down-south blitz, this that outlaw wrath
where every snitch gets buried on a hand-dug path
this ain't music...
this a warning wrapped in 808s and black tape
country lunatic
backwoods general
and they still don’t want no war.
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